


Burn Me Down to Ashes

by Salmonellagogo



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Futuristic War, Gen, Giant Space Robots, Gundam!AU, M/M, Nihilism, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-War, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 12:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmonellagogo/pseuds/Salmonellagogo
Summary: The world is not the same after the war.





	Burn Me Down to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This thing was written a long, long time ago for the Generation Kill kink meme. I always thought I would finish writing the whole story one day, but I knew I was lying to myself. So here it is, a Gundam AU written mostly to amuse myself. You don't need any understanding of the Gundam series to read this. Just, as a side note, in Gundam universe, soldiers of the future fight with giant robots. That's it.

Brad doesn't drink, as a rule. It is a bad habit. One that leads you to ruin. But three days after he's out of the hospital, he finds himself standing inside the space station, drinking vodka straight out of the bottle. He leans against the siderail of a bridge that leads to the check-in lobby, watching people come and go. People know his face here. He's famous, even. They smile and sometimes stop to thank him for his heroism, although mostly, they give him a wide berth.

No mothers want their child to be in the presence of a killer.

The big screens mounted at intervals show moving news tickers. _There are no more war,_ one of them says. _A united front is fast emerging. The leaders of the world are reaching a solid agreement for the world peace._

He snorts.

Peace is mostly noises to him. Pretentious slogans and waste of flyers.

He'd taken a cab to the space station and bought a flight in civilian aircraft instead of registering himself for a military scheduled shuttle to have more leg rooms and a bed instead of a bunk. He doesn't expect anyone, so he is surprised when someone suddenly calls out to him.

"Hell, Brad, you look like shit," Person says, settling himself to lean on the railing alongside Brad.

Brad tilts his head a little and lifts his bottle in acknowledgement of Ray's comment. Ray is here. Of course. They needed metaphorical pliers to pry the whiskey tango hick from humping his legs in the war. No one figures why they won't need one after.

 

::

 

The world is not the same after the war. The soldiers rust and stagnate. Children--men--like him who grow up with war dream of peace. They hope to reach it and expect it to never truly come.

 

::

 

Brad has scars, the lacerations and raised bumps that run across his back, creating fissures and cracks at the places where they meet his tattoos.

The scars are gifts.

 

::

 

The other pilot is young. Brad can see it from the reckless, driven passion he puts in his fight, but there is also the precision, the patience in which he waits for right moment to exact a killing lunge. An eagle in flight who pivots down to strike his prey.

They reach dead-lock, again and again. Brad has earned himself a reputation among his peers. They call him the Iceman because he gets calmer under pressure. He holds the record for the longest time in the endurance fight training simulator where the others fall one by one, either by exhaustion or sheer incompetence.

He can take out this brat, plays him to the point of exhaustion. The other pilot's Fighter Unit, Balmung—ridiculous whiskey tango name—is made of better technology than his Victor. It's faster, leaner where his Victor is bulkier, with heavy shield on its left arm that Brad's sword can't pierce. The Union leaders are wetting themselves at the prospect of capturing one of these mysterious Fighter Units.

Brad leaps back when the brat suddenly changes tactic. Balmung’s right arm draws back, the mechanical palm opens to reveal a cannon muzzle. The fight has been clashes of giant metal swords up until this point.

His screen blinks. The feminine voice of his AI informs Brad of forming heat and energy coming from the muzzle. Brad pivots out of the way at the last minute. He can feel the hot radiation of the beam even through the thick armor of his Victor.

"Hitman to Hitman two one actual,” Brad's radio crackles out to him. “Be advised Godfather wants us to regroup to rendezvous point two one five november tango romeo.”

He feels a profound disappointment coils in his stomach. He hasn't felt the thrill for a battle like this in a long while, the excitement of meeting a worthy opponent. Someone who might be able to kill him and blast him into dust.

"Hitman two one, oscar mike," he replies, nearly tearing his controller off as he yanks it back to reverse and flies away from Balmung.

He looks at the rear camera until Balmung disappears. _Balmung_. The name sounds like a promise.

 

::

 

Space colonies are placed at each of the five Earth-Moon Langranian points. His shuttle touches down at O'Neill Five. A colony at Langrane Four that hosts many war refugees.

Brad heard stray rumors when he was still in the hospital—the half conversations and broadcasted news that indicated what he wanted to find was here. He ditches Ray at the hotel once they arrive there. His search is something private. Something he can't share; no matter much he trusts Ray.

People know him here, too. The famous war hero. News travel fast these days, after the zone restriction policy is lifted. They give him a wide berth. Several men and women stare at him openly—curiosity wars with disdain, but mostly the latter wins because he spends half his youth killing people from this part. He doesn't blame them the contempt.

He walks into the only place he can think of where he can find the tip he wants.

He enters the only open bar at this part of the town that hasn't finished rebuilding after war. It still smells faintly of paint despite the human sweat and other acrid, unrecognized rich tang that fill the place.

The people are ragged and weary. There is no cheer in the atmosphere despite the planes pumping flyers down the streets and rooftops, despite the banners declaring peace erecting at places. They mostly come here to drink.

Someone approaches him after he orders, leaning at the bar table beside him.

"Brad Colbert, Union's esteemed First Sergeant, the Iceman hisself," the man says. "You don't look like you enjoy peace."

Brad doesn't acknowledge the man, waiting until he knows what the man wants. The waiter slides him his drink. Whiskey on the rock that he sips slowly.

"Am I wrong to assume you are here to look for a missing thing?" the man asks.

Brad raises his eyebrows. He still doesn't speak. He eyes the man, giving him an Iceman look that speaks volume.

The man's smile falters a bit at the edges. He continues nervously, "I can show you the way."

"For what price?" Brad says. He will normally never talk with the likes of this man. A rat that sniffs breadcrumb in every corner of every alley—the kind that will sell anything, even loyalty.

"Everything has a price," the man replies. His cat smile returns at the possibility of a successful sell.

"How can I know you aren't selling me air?"

The man shakes his head, as if Brad's saying something ridiculous. "I won't. This world ain’t our world. Don't you feel like, you need to take revenge on someone responsible for all this nonsense?"

The man is a mercenary. Brad curls his lips in disdain. "Don't lump me with the likes of you."

"Wait, don't raise your hackle yet. You know you want this." He lifts both hands, palm facing out in a placating gesture.

He reluctantly agrees.

 

::

 

Nathaniel C. Fick. Twenty three years old. A Freedom Fighter who pilots a custom Fighter Unit, codenamed Balmung.

Back at the barrack, Brad stares hard at his laptop screen, burning the picture of Nathaniel C. Fick into his brain. There is so little information on these ragtag Freedom Fighters. They come out of nowhere, claiming to fight in the name of peace, but striking every country possible that has a hand on war.

Their action reads a lot like suicide. They are trying to attain the unreachable.

"Hey Brad, is he the one inside the Unit you fought earlier today?" Ray says from somewhere behind him. "Holyshit, he has a cocksucker mouth!"

"Dog, I'm sure there are rules against jacking off to your enemy," Poke adds helpfully.

Brad tunes them out.

 

::

 

He doesn't look like a warrior. He doesn't look like anything. Not while he sleeps.

He looks so fucking young that Brad's feels his insides ache. Nathaniel C. Fick's face is smudged with dirt and oil and god knows what else. His lashes are so long they touch his cheek.

The mercenary gave Brad the information about this place; halfway across the town from the bar he visited to a half-ruined house among the same dozen others. This is where the rebuilt program hasn't touched at all. The breach at this part of the colony's wall has been patched, but the weather control has still not functioned. The coldness of deep space seeps into the area.

Now, alone with the person he wanted to find, Brad shivers from the cold and doesn't know what to do. He's thought about doing this a lot when he was in the hospital—to find the person who beat him, gave him his fucking scars. But he never covered what he would do once the finding part was over. He never figured it'd be this easy to find someone who was also a fugitive to twenty different countries.

Brad stands not far away from Fick who lies on the floor. Fick sleeps on, unaware. Brad takes stock. A blood soaked t-shirt is balled up to serve as Fick's pillow. The man himself is bare-chested, wearing only dark jeans that rides low on his hips as he lies on his side, facing away from Brad to the wall at the corner of what Brad supposes is the living room of this once-house. There are blood stains on Fick's skin—smudged from attempts at cleaning them. Four long scars at his back and one open wound that still bleeds sluggishly.

He can't tell whether Fick's sleep is a bone deep weariness sleep or unconscious sleep. He contemplates putting a bullet in Fick's pretty head. As a payback and a nod to his sense of duty. He takes out his gun and draws the slide back. He never kills a person with a gun. He never kills anyone outside the protection of his Fighter Unit.

But he knows he can.

He feels the weight of the gun in his hand, kneels and nearly touches the muzzle to Fick's temple. Fick's skin is so pale. The end of his copper red hair sticks to his forehead.

Brad exhales and counts to three.

He stores his gun back into the fold inside his jacket.

It's unthinkable how a person who looks this fragile manages to kill so many, to fight so gloriously.

Brad skims his finger along the bow of Fick's shoulder and only realizes when he has done so. Fick is fucking freezing. The skin under his hand is cold as ice.

Fick shifts under his touch. Brad snatches his hand back as if caught.

Fick turns slowly.

He looks at Brad with the green eyes that have haunted his countless dreams.

 

::

 

Brad thinks this is the moment when he will finally die. His Victor is shot, repeatedly, and slashed at places where Balmung's sword can reach him. The screens inside his cockpit flash red warnings—ten seconds before the propeller stops working and he falls to his doom.

It's funny, he thinks. Because at this point, death is almost an afterthought to him.

He's in love. Not love in the sense that needs to be consummated. It's a love that is only perfect in the throes of battles, theatrics of heroic passions. Conquerors and knights. Love in those old stories he's read as a teenager.

 


End file.
